


To be safe here, with you

by rairai



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Ficlet, M/M, Mentions of violence/abuse, Smut, portrayal of a panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 03:16:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4084588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rairai/pseuds/rairai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It lingers with you for days.</p><p>Not just the memory of his hands ghosting over your hips, his breath in your ear, the taste of his neck; but the guilt. It eats you from the inside out, and you lash out at anyone in the vicinity, needing to see your anger in someone else, needing them to understand that you did something terrible you can’t even regret because - god fucking dammit - you loved it more than anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To be safe here, with you

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much an AU about Ian + Mickey meeting/talking/fucking for the first time from Mickey’s POV. Some of it happens in canon. Some of it diverges so don’t expect the canon storyline. I feel like their story could have been explored so much more in depth from the beginning... anyway!!! I hate the Shameless writers but what else is new! Enjoy.

  The first time you see him, he’s playing second base beside your first and watching you with those huge eyes, smiling smugly like he just knows you’re going to hit a fucking home run. He’s good at baseball for such a chubby kid with such an innocent smile, secretly aggressive and maybe even more competitive than you are. He always gives you these cheeky grins like he knows you’re going to win the game for them, and even though you hit him back with a scowl you always smile to yourself later, remembering how you hit the ball like a fucking champion.

  And maybe, when you get a bit too heated up over a dickhead umpire, cussing and throwing up both middle fingers, it’s for the boy with the huge, innocent eyes. Maybe you know he’s going to double over with laughter when you unzip your fly and piss all over first base, throwing up two middle fingers and sticking out your tongue. Maybe you know he’s gonna be wiping tears from his eyes and jumping around yelling “Go Mickey!” until he’s dragged off the diamond, too. Maybe you throw a smile his way as you ditch the bat and leg it out of there before anyone can catch you.

  You get banned from Little League then, and you don't really see him around.

  The second time you see him he’s unloading boxes round the back of a convenience store. There are sweat stains on his grey t-shirt and he keeps sweeping his bangs out of his eyes like a kid, but you think you might want to get to know him anyway. He looks jumpy, innocent, like the South Side hasn’t burrowed under his skin. You wonder how anyone can be that strong.

  The third time you see him he’s with his shifty brother, inhaling a cigarette quickly before class starts. You suddenly wish you’d come to school more often because he looks good with his head back against the wall like that and his hair out of his eyes, smiling that huge dopey smile he’s always had. He laughs at something his brother says and you think you wouldn’t mind making him smile.

  The fourth time you see him it’s because you want to. You step foot in the shitty little store he works at just so you can see his face, and you think maybe that’s a little pathetic considering you’ve never spoken. And yet here you are, stealing glances from behind the Pringles.

  He’s leaning one long arm on the counter, a mess of books spread in front of him. You watch him scratch at a freckle, flick his bangs out of his eyes every two seconds. He looks up, then - straight at you, as if he knows you’ve been staring. You flick your eyes away and wonder how the fuck you got to this point. How the fuck you’re considering paying for something because you want to hear him laugh.

  You saunter up to him at the counter and you know, then, that it’s all going to go downhill from here, because he’s got that smug smirk on his face he always used to throw your way at Little League, like he knows exactly what you’re doing here.

  “Hey. Mickey, right?”

  His voice is high-pitched, excitable, but there’s something underneath the surface: aggressive, competitive, tempting. You drum your fingers on the counter and run your tongue along your bottom lip.

  “Yeah. Who the fuck’s asking?”

  He starts ringing up your Pringles, leaving a long silence, like he knows you’re desperate. “Ian Gallagher. We played baseball together when we were kids. I remember your hair, all spiky.” He laughs, like he hasn’t got a fear in the world. You wish you could be scarier in this moment. You wish you didn’t want to listen to him speak. “And Mandy talks about you all the time. You and your knuckle tats.” He glances up at you and gives you that smile and you turn away, quickly, running your fingers over a pack of gum.

  “Oh, yeah? What’d she say?”

  He leans over the counter then, smelling of cheap deodorant and laundry powder. You try not to breathe him in as you hold his gaze. The side of his lip quirks up and he brushes his bangs out of his face for the millionth time. “That she absolutely smashes you at video games.”

  “Fucking bitch,” you smirk, grabbing the bag of Pringles without paying and heading for the exit. It’s too much now, and it’s time to escape. You don’t like feeling vulnerable and you’ve never felt more exposed in your life.

  “Later, Mickey!” he calls from behind you.

* * *

  You go to juvie twice, let your father turn you black and blue, fuck a few chicks you don’t remember the names of. You don’t really think about Ian, except when you let yourself. Maybe it’s because you can tell he’s gay and up for it, but his smirk is burnt into the back of your mind, a memory you can’t shake.

  He gets close to Mandy and you want to be angry but you know he's good for her. You see him now and again on your couch or outside the convenience store smoking a cigarette. You steal glances at each other and each time he gives you that smirk, like he knows what you want and he’s willing to give it to you if you ask. Too bad you’re not going to.

  You don’t talk to him again until he approaches you under the overpass. He’s taller now, filled out, wearing these tight jeans and a white t-shirt. His bangs have disappeared and you can see his eyebrows quirking up at you as he walks towards you with the sound of cars whizzing by above. He’s sucking on a cigarette with one hand, the other in his pocket. He looks good.

  “Mickey!” He gives you that smile. It’s more subtle now, like he's not so innocent anymore. "Mandy said I’d find you here.”

  You squint and aim your gun at a makeshift target, firing perfectly. Maybe you’re showing off a little. You hear Ian’s surprised laughter at your side and you feel ten again, pissing all over first base, unable to control what you’d do for his attention.

  “What do you want?”

  Ian smirks. “Weed.”

  You squint, looking him up and down. “There’s gotta be a million dealers on your block. Shit, doesn’t your brother deal? The one with the rat-face?”

  Ian lets out a sudden cackle, loud and echoing beneath the overpass. It’s the same surprised, innocent laugh you remember. It’s kind of contagious and you try not to smile. “Yeah.” He moves closer. “I heard you might give me a discount.”

  You snort. He’s almost too close now, his huge eyes trained on yours, looking up through his lashes like he knows you’re about to do something stupid. He’s not nervous like most people are when they ask you for something. He’s standing perfectly still, his mouth quirked to the side. You wonder when you started noticing things like his eyes, his lips. The fact that his bangs no longer obscure his forehead.

  “A’ight.” It’s meant to be threatening, but it comes out amicable. “If you share. Shit’s too good for me to give it all away.”

* * *

  It grows dark and you’re still spread out on your back under the overpass, listening to cars rush past overhead and sucking on another joint. Ian’s not touching you but he’s sitting too close, legs tucked under his chin and his biceps flexing each time he takes a hit.

  Ian seems to think you’re funny even when you’re trying to be threatening, and every time he laughs you find it harder to keep your scowl. He’s intoxicating, his endless, excitable energy forcing you to drop your guard now and again.

  “Fuck,” he breathes into the night air, and you turn your head lazily to gaze up at him, “this is good shit.”

  “Why’d you really hit me up for the weed?” you ask suddenly, the joint dulling your brain-to-mouth filter and making you giggle like a kid. “Mandy’s probably told you ‘bout all the people I’ve fucked up. You’re not scared of me, Gallagher?”

  He moves suddenly, his lanky limbs propelling him forward in one smooth movement until he’s straddling you without warning. You sit up quickly, babbling out cuss words, your hands against his chest, but he’s pushing you back down, and now his eyes are looking into yours and he’s close, too close, his skin pressed against yours, his lips by your ear. “I’m not scared of you, Mickey.”

  You’re breathing in shallow bursts like you can’t control your own lungs. You realise, for a brief moment, that you want him even closer. He licks his lips.

  Then he stands up, brushes himself off, and walks away. “See you around, Milkovich.”

* * *

  Ian seems to be at your house all the time. You wonder if there might be an ulterior motive, but Mandy’s his best friend and he seems to enjoy her company, somehow.

  If there’s one thing your dad taught you, it’s fight or flight. You can fight with fists, you can knock a guy down so he’s missing all his teeth and he won’t remember who his family is. You can stab any pussy and leave him permanently limping and wishing he’d never fucked with you. But when it comes to this shit: shivering when Ian passes you in the hall, thinking about his smirk hours later, watching him move as he stands or sits or reaches into the cupboard for a pop tart - these are things you know you’re meant to run from. No matter how hard you try, it seems impossible to stop letting your eyes catch his. You can’t seem to get under your own skin.

  Inevitably, he catches you in the kitchen one drowsy afternoon, sunlight catching his eyes as he smiles at you. “Hi,” he says lowly, propelling himself off the counter to invade your space. His breath smells like weed and his huge eyes are bloodshot, catching on yours. He breathes out a chuckle, warm air hitting your cheek. You don’t think you’ve been this close to anyone’s face before, and somewhere deep down you’re glad it’s his. He blinks lazily down at you, and for a moment you let your eyes roam along his fading freckles, the stubble under his nose, his parted lips as he breathes shallowly onto your skin. His neck, a tiny vein throbbing under his ear. His eyes linger on your lips and he leans forward.

  Something snaps then. He’s too close, the air constricting around you and your heart pounding in your ears as you gasp for breath. Your hands fumble in front of you, blindly, until you’re pushing him away. You feel something stinging behind your eyes, your legs shaking underneath you. You can’t let this happen. It’s all wrong. It’s fight or flight. So you dart down the hallway to the tiny bathroom, with the porn magazines in a messy pile and the shit stains around the toilet bowl, and you vomit up your breakfast.

  You don’t leave your room for the rest of the day. You feel like a pussy, but your hands won’t stop shaking.

* * *

  He finds you under the overpass again. Part of you hoped - and knew - he would come. Another part of you wishes you could avoid him forever.

  “Hey, Mick.”

  “It’s Mickey. We’re not buddies. You don’t get to give me a fucking nickname.”

  He laughs like he’ll never be afraid of you no matter how much you push. “Okay, Mickey. Wanna go somewhere?”

  You squint at him. “What are you doing here?”

  He stares at you for a long time. “Come on.” He beckons, starts walking in the opposite direction. You wish you weren’t about to follow him.

  He leads you to the baseball diamond, and you should have fucking known he would pull some sentimental shit to tear at your insides and force you to remember that you’ve always seen him. Always wanted him, from the beginning. For now, it’s easier to pretend: “What the fuck are we doin’ here?”

  “I come here a lot. It’s quiet.” He slings himself over the fence, all long limbs and floppy curls. “You know, when home gets too loud.”

  “Try living at my house,” you snort, pulling yourself over behind him.

  He laughs. “I do, half the time. You’re right, though. It’s probably louder.” He pauses. “No screaming children, though.”

  You smirk. “Just gunshots.”

  You sit together along the fence, wrists leaning on knees, sharing a cigarette. He’s right: the diamond's quiet, abandoned on weekdays. “Do you remember Little League?” he asks suddenly, and you smile despite yourself.

  “Yeah. I got banned.”

  “Yeah. You whipped your dick out in the middle of a game. I got banned too, cause I cheered you on.”

  You grin, something about the shared rebellion warming you. “Fuckers. The ump was fucking retarded. Not my fault they hired a dumbass.”

  Ian lets out a cackle, his head thrown back and his legs flung out in front of him. You think he might be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen in that moment, his eyes sparkling, his laugh lingering in the air. “Even back then, you were a badass.”

  He stands, reaches in his bag for something, produces a mostly-empty bottle of cheap vodka. He takes a long swig, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Wipes his mouth with his hand; holds the bottle out. “I thought I’d bring something this time, since you supplied the weed last time.” A mischievous grin spreads across his face. “Although... you do owe me for those Pringles you stole...”

  “Fuck you,” you snort, springing to your feet and grabbing the bottle from his grasp. You take a long swig, his eyes on you the whole time. He’s standing too close and you think you can hear your own heart beating in the heavy silence. You pass him the bottle and your hand brushes his for just a moment. He catches your eye and that smirk blooms on his face again, confident, knowing.

  Something rises hot and twisting in the pit of your belly, trumping lust completely; something stronger than wanting his dick in your ass and his hands all over you. You think you might want to kiss him.

  And you do, because with Ian maybe you could let that feeling take over, just for a little while.

  He grunts almost inaudibly as you touch his neck to guide him forward and then he's breathing hot, smoky air into your mouth as he slides his tongue between your teeth. You can feel his smirk against your lips, hear his quiet chuckle as he opens his mouth wider and and curls his tongue around yours. He’s sure of himself now, sure that you’re not going to run from yourself this time, and you allow yourself to get lost, reaching your hands up to grip his hair as he presses his lips almost painfully against yours.

  Through the haze you feel his dick hard against your hipbone, his hands on your ass. Your mouth moves down his neck, stopping for a moment against the collar of his shirt. He smells like sweat and you breathe him in as he ruts against you. And you’re shaking with it all; his overwhelming smell, his mouth fumbling against your chin as it tries to find your lips. He’s whispering your name a million different ways and every time he says “Mick” in that wrecked voice you feel like maybe your name means something, maybe you mean more than cigarette butts and blood and fuck u-up. Maybe you are someone who could feel that twisting in your stomach and let yourself drown in it.

  He drags cold, sure hands down over the planes of your stomach and you feel yourself shudder against his mouth, his warm breath making every hair stand on end. He trails them over your thighs, your crotch, and you whine as he pulls them away to take his jacket off. Laughing, he plunges his fingers beneath your waistband and gives you two quick jerks before unbuttoning your jeans and sliding them down, doing the same to his when you give him an impatient look.

  You’re both still wearing shirts and the biting wind knocks against your legs, making you shudder. You can see goosebumps rising against his skin and something rises inside you again so you turn around and push it away before it gets too much, because you don’t think you’ll be able to handle it. Not just yet.

  You hear quiet rustling behind you and then he’s pushing one, two fingers in, cold with lube, and you jerk against him before relaxing into his touch. For a brief second you’re stunned by how good you feel, by how good this feels; here, with him. You shudder as his movements become more rhythmic, reaching a hand forward to relieve yourself of something, anything, but that twisting in your belly won’t go away.

  And then he’s sliding himself in and everything fades into the background as he grunts against you. Everything melts down to his burning hands on your back, the sound of his skin against yours, the metallic taste of blood as you bite down on your lip. And it’s fast and rough and he won’t shut the fuck up but you think it’s probably the best sex you’ve ever had. And when he grinds out your name between his teeth and leans down to bite your shoulder as he comes, you follow him over.

  Your orgasm makes you loose-lipped, your walls down for the first time with him. And when he leans in to kiss you, you don’t resist. No one is watching, and you know he won’t tell.

* * *

   It lingers with you for days.

  Not just the memory of his hands ghosting over your hips, his breath in your ear, the taste of his neck, but the guilt. It eats you from the inside out, and you lash out at anyone in the vicinity, needing to see your anger in someone else, needing them to understand that you did something terrible you can’t even regret because - god fucking dammit - you loved it more than anything.

  Mandy grows tired of treading on eggshells around you and retreats into her room or goes out to get away from your biting words and sharp fists. Terry and your brothers are out on a run for a few days and you thank the fucking lord above because you don’t know what you’d do if you had to see your father’s face; had to imagine him knowing what you know; had to feel bitter, metallic guilt rise in your throat each time he spoke to you.

  On the second day it’s all too much, the memory, the guilt, and you feel yourself shudder as bile rises in your throat. You reach the bathroom just in time, retching into the filthy toilet bowl. You’ve become accustomed to this feeling of overwhelming self-disgust as you empty your fear into the dirty water and watch it swirl down the drain. And as you lie on your bed and wait for the shaking to subside, you wonder if this is your life now.

  And yet each time you ask yourself if Ian is worth it, you realise you would love to be eaten alive by guilt, be beaten into oblivion by your father, if it means having those hands roaming over you again, having those eyes crinkle at something you’ve said. Because it feels like freedom, and that's something you don't know much about. But you're sure you would die a million different ways just to look at him, to let that twisting in your stomach consume you completely.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr @ carllgallagher or on my main blog, bojackshorseman.


End file.
